


Know The Maker's Land

by smilesawakeyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Gen Fic, Greg Lestrade does not tolerate no bullshit, John Watson ain't nothin to fuck with, John Watson: Sass Master, M/M, Molly Hooper is a lying baby deer, Mycroft Holmes is a bastard, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, the author should not edit things after taking ambien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilesawakeyou/pseuds/smilesawakeyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written originally for the prompt:<br/><i>Can I get some post-Fall BAMF!John?<br/>You've all seen the Believe in Sherlock art I'm sure. There are several pics of John with a bandana covering his face, spray painting the message in yellow across London. Can I get this in fic? Perhaps with Lestrade and maybe a few other people joining in the movement.<br/>Bonus points if you can work in/use for motivation 'The Cave' by Mumford and Sons.</i></p>
<p>I started it on the thread, lost it, found it again, and continued it here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And I will hold on hope  
> And I won't let you choke  
> On the noose around your neck
> 
> And I'll find strength in pain  
> And I will change my ways  
> I'll know my name as it's called again
> 
> -The Cave, Mumford & Sons

It starts with some graffiti.

Well, it doesn't start there, of course. It starts on the top of a building while John stands below, helpless. Or maybe it starts when John walked into that lab on Mike's behest. Or maybe it starts in Afghanistan when a bullet meant for another man finds John Watson instead.

But the graffiti is where it all _restarts_.

Grief is a funny thing. John's experienced grief before, what with his mother and father both dying (one unfortunately carried more weight than the other but that's how such things work) and with being in a bloody war and all. It isn't like he doesn't know how to deal with grief. He knows how to soldier on, if you pardon the pun. He isn't fucking helpless.

Only now he is, isn't he? He's fucking helpless. It isn't like when he got back from the war - everything had been stone then, his heart, his life. Unmoving. Still. Cold. Now it's like he's lost in an ocean. He can't stop feeling things. He supposes it's normal in the same way you always suppose most extremely unpleasant things might be normal, but he knows it's doing something to him. A person can't feel this much all the time. It has to be detrimental. It has to be deadly.

And maybe it is. He stops going to therapy ("Waste of time," he tells Harry when she asks and she doesn't push it because, well, pot and the kettle and all that) and tries to continue on at the surgery. It goes all right. Sarah, as per usual, is supportive. And wonderful. And a reminder of what he should want but never wanted properly enough.

So he asks for a recommendation and transfers to another surgery. It's... nice. In a way. No one asks him questions or knows him well enough to pry and he keeps it that way. No one says anything when he sits in a pale fog of greif at his desk until the wee hours of the morning, not being able to move himself. He does his job and that's all anyone wants out of him. It's good. It's great.

Except for all the ways it isn't.

He moves out of Baker Street with little protest by Mrs. Hudson. She lets him go but says, in that quiet voice of hers, that she's planning on leaving it unoccupied for a bit if John, well, wants to come and get _his_ things. Then her eyes go misty and John nods absently and knows he won't be doing so anytime soon. He tells her that if Mycroft comes by, don't give him any trouble. Just let him take whatever he wants, with a silent "the bastard" added to the end. If Mrs. Hudson notices, she doesn't mention it.

His new flat is old and creaky and lacks any atrocious wallpaper or aging science equipment or rotting body parts and John hates it. He supposes it isn't the building's fault but, really, if he's going to focus his anger at anything, it might as well be this horrible flat. He doesn't decorate. He leaves it bare.

It suits him.

He takes the long way to work since the shorter way goes by St Bart's and John just can't. Not yet. So he takes the long way. Sometimes he sees recognition on people's faces as the pass and John is more than ready to tell the whole lot of them to piss off if they dare speak but they never do. There is just the quick light of acknowledgement in their eyes before their gaze falls away. He guesses it's for the best.

The feelings become this cloud, this fog that hangs onto every surface of his life. Everything is grey. It sits like cotton on his tongue and cotton in his ears and cotton in his heart. Smiling hurts and laughter stops. He's not even sure what he's doing anymore - what _is_ he doing anymore? It isn't like when he came back from the war. He doesn't want to end everything. But then what the hell is he doing?

And then... it restarts with some graffiti on a wall.

It's a brick wall, not that that's important. And it's yellow paint, which is also unimportant. 

But the words...

John sees it out of the corner of his eye on the way to work. It's next to a bistro he's stopped inside once or twice, owned by an old Greek man who worries about John with words he can't understand. He's wondering idly if he should stop in to get some biscuits when the yellow jumps out at him, cutting through the grey. He stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, squeezing his eyes shut before backtracking to the wall.

He stares.

_I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES_

He keeps staring. Why? Why would someone write that? Why would someone spray paint such a thing to a wall? Even the yellow of the paint itself is familiar and John squeezes his eyes shut once more, counts to ten, and opens them.

It remains the same.

He glances around to see who could have done such a thing when he notices a young woman, homeless by the looks of it, sitting a few paces from the wall. He strides up to her without thinking twice.

"Hi, uh, sorry to bother you just... did you see who did this?" He points to the wall. Her slightly glazed eyes follow to where his finger gestures and she raises a suspicious brow. "I'm not with the police or anything. I just... I wanted to know why someone would write that. I need to know."

She gives him a slow once-over. "Why you wanna know?"

John runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I, well... I knew him. Sherlock, that is. We were friends." It's so strange - it's the first time in MONTHS he's mentioned Sherlock's name willingly to anyone and it's to some strange street person who might not even have any information whatsoever.

"You was friends with Sherlock Holmes?" the young woman asks. It's then that her face splits into a grin. She has few teeth and those that remain are blackened. "Sherlock was always sayin' he didn't have no friends. Guess he was wrong."

"You knew Sherlock?" John asks.

"Yes, he paid me a few times for information." She says this with a pointed look John's way. Ah. Right then. He wordlessly hands her five quid (or maybe it's ten, whatever, he can do with his money what he wishes) and she flashes him her nearly-toothless smile again. "They've been writin' it all over town, I believe. See, folks like you an' me, we know that there ain't something right about what happened. Plus..."

She leans forward and John drops to a squat to come closer. She smells of old urine and fruit and John wonders vaguely how Sherlock came to know her.

"We on the streets... we know that Moriarty was real." She leans back. John can only stare.

"How...?"

"Dear Jim, he called hisself. Dear was a bad word for him. He weren't right in the head, that one." She shakes her own head. "Got some of my mates to help him once or twice but no one that ever helped him turned up alive again, if you catch my meaning. But we knew who he was." At John's shocked expression, she smiles again, close-mouthed this time. It's a sad smile. John realizes with a start that she might have been beautiful once and wonders who she is. "I know what you're thinking, sir, but we couldn't have convinced anyone. No reporter or copper would believe us. Who listens to the mad people on the street? Only our Sherlock, it would seem." 

John presses his fingers to his mouth before running his hands over his eyes, scrubbing at them. "So you all have been writing this graffiti?" he asks.

"No, it's them hoodies that've been doing that. They figure the police deserve the extra headache, what with what they've been saying about Sherlock. Ya see," she leans in again, her voice a whisper, "us at the bottom, we know what's what. And we? We ain't buying what they're selling. Richard Brooke is as real as I'm the ruddy Queen."

John stands then, barely of his own volition. "Thank you," he chokes out. "Thank you for... for believing in Sherlock."

"It don't take much," the young woman said, her eyes glassy with tears. "He's the one who believed in us first."

John wants to point out that the homeless network was just a tool to Sherlock, that he saw them as an important overlooked resource of information, that he didn't care about any of them, not ever, but he doesn't. He can't. All he can see is the yellow letters on the wall and he realizes with a sudden bloom of hope and anger and elation that Moriarty's network has cracks. Giant, looming cracks caused by arrogance or carelessness.

And if there are cracks, well, John's going to just have to get a sledge hammer and break the whole thing to pieces himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I will hold on hope  
> And I won't let you choke  
> On the noose around your neck
> 
> And I'll find strength in pain  
> And I will change my ways  
> I'll know my name as it's called again
> 
> -The Cave, Mumford & Sons

_______________________________________________

John's pretty sure he's bleeding.

It's okay, of course it's okay, because he's going to have to worry if it isn't. He's alone, which is also worrisome, and no one knows where he is, which is exponentially so. He's pretty sure the rational part of his brain turned off the moment he started following strangers (strangers who are known murderers with a penchant for sadism and Jesus, _why isn't John worrying?_ ) into dark alleys and then further into abandoned flats and then pulled a gun on one such murderer-stranger and John is most definitely bleeding.

"Who is he?" he asks instead of worrying. The man before him also doesn't seem to be worrying and John wonders just how bad the gash on his head looks.

The man spits on the floor. "It doesn't matter anymore," he drawls. "You're pulling at strings, mate, and you've got no idea what they're attached to."

He's right, to be fair to the murderer. And supposed arsonist, if John's intel is to be believed (intel? When did he start having things like intel? Oh, right, when he started being absolutely _mad_ and hanging about with the massively criminal underbelly of London). John doesn't know where the strings lead but that's precisely why he's doing this. If he can't see the puppet-master, or rather puppet-masters, he's gonna have to keep yanking on marionettes until something falls over.

Idly, he thinks that metaphor could use some work. He blames his head wound. 

...And he's distracted himself. He gives himself a quick shake and - ow, head wound, _right_ \- and concentrates.

"I don't give a fuck what I'm bringing on myself," he answers, honest and pleasant, "I just want to know who knows things."

"Well, it ain't me," the man says, scowling and obviously not appreciating John's conversational tone seeing as he's holding him at gunpoint. It's not John's fault that the man refused to participate in civil discorse and hit him in the head with a ruddy two-by-four. "And word is that people ain't happy with you poking around, Doctor Watson."

John tilts his head which, again, ow, head wound. "You know my name?"

"You're about as subtle as Rambo with a hundredth of the firepower," the man says, smirking. "You really think you're going to get anything accomplished on your lonesome?"

To be honest, he isn't. He's not even sure what it is that he's doing - he just heard the term "Moriarty's Network" and that a certain firebug in Hackney would have information about three men. He had no idea who these three men were supposed to be but any of his contacts (homeless and hoodies, the lot of them, but they were kind and took pity on John which is more than you could say about most) fall silent and uneasy at his questions. He thinks back to the assassins surrounding Baker Street and wonders...

"Whether or not I accomplish anything is hardly of import to you," John points out. "I just need some names. Names that I've heard _you_ ," he leans forward with his gun, "know. So that means we have to have this conversation. You're not pleased with it, I'm certainly not pleased with it, but here we are."

"Fuck you," the man spits.

John sighs. He feels dizzy and reckless and it's not all just the head wound. These criminals are irritating and, okay, he feels a little woozy, but he's starting to get sick of everyone underestimating him all the time. He was in the army, you know. He might have seemed normal next to Sherlock but he still ran around like an absolute nutter at his behest and yet this man seems to self-assured that John isn't going to do anything. That he isn't going to hurt him.

And yes, perhaps he isn't. But maybe he is, all right? Could anyone blame him? His finger itches on the trigger in a way that is new and he wishes the man would try something just so John could try something right back.

But does it matter, really? Does it have to be self defense? Does he have to play fair against a side that threw the rule book out the window ages ago?

John could hurt this man. He feels the capability to do so coursing through his veins, making his heart flutter and the gash in his head throb. He _could_.

But will he?

He hears the pop somehow before anything happens, causing him to drop to his knees and cover his head - the glass behind him explodes and he dives forward, knocking the other man slightly to the side. He stills, checks himself, no bullet holes, before looking to his left. The arsonist is on his back, blood gurgling from his neck. The neck?Why the neck? Was the shot meant for John? He thinks, calculates in a fog as his heart races, and decides no bullets were aimed his way. He must have prevented the shooter from getting the arsonist in the head. He huddles beneath the windowsill until no more shots are forthcoming. What the bloody fuck?

"What the bloody fuck?" he repeats out loud for good mesure. The other man responds with a sickly wet wheezing sound and suddenly John is in doctor mode, sliding over to him on his knees. It looks bad. Very, very bad.

"Help me," the man somehow manages to choke out. "Please."

John strips off his jacket and fashions a make-shift compress, but it isn't going to do any good. "I'm sorry, but... I'm sorry."

The man chokes again and looks at John with hopeless eyes. "Please," John asks, broken, "who would do this? Who is doing this?"

The man's eyes start to turn glassy but not before a look of pity flashes behind them. His lips form a word but John can't hear it so he leans forward, pressing his ear to the other man's mouth.

"M... _Moran_ ," he says, and dies.

John is left staring at the bloody mess on his hands, the broken window, the neighboring building that apparently housed an inexplicable sniper. Who was that? Was it this... Moran person? He looks back to the dead man. John doesn't even properly know who he is, let alone if he's left anyone behind. If there will be any next of kin to notify. He swallows and crawls to lean against a wall, his breathing shallow. He stares at his now-ruined jacket in his hands and almost laughs except it isn't a proper laugh and suddenly, with a rush of intensity he hasn't felt in months, he _misses_ Sherlock in such a complete and utter way that a broken sob escapes him.

He puts his head in his hands, shaking and, right, probably not a good idea seeing as they're covered in blood and he has an _open head wound_ but he can't stop himself since clutching his fingers to his face seems to be the only way to stop himself from falling apart.

He's not sure how long he stays like this - it might be hours. The sun seems to be in a different position when he finally looks up and realizes he's been sitting in a crime scene with a dead body and blood all over his hands. Luckily, the building seems to be remote enough that no one called the police or else... well. They would have found him in a crime scene with a dead body and blood all over his hands. Shakily, he gets to his feet and stumbles to the bathroom in the flat and tests the tap which is thankfully still working, scrubbing at his hands and face and finally getting a good look at his head. It looks angry and not at all nice but, once he washes it out, it looks less deep. It will definitely bruise and won't that go over well at the surgery? Another burst of hysteria bubbles its way out of him in an odd laugh and he clamps his now-clean hand over his mouth.

He probably has a concussion, by the looks of it.

Fantastic.

He wads the jacket up in his hands until the blood stain is less obvious (that's one less jacket he owns and, damn, that is unfortunate and then he remembers why it's covered in blood and instantly feels remorse for the selfish thought). He makes it out, somehow, and finds himself on a bus sometime later. He earns a few odd looks but this is a rough neighborhood so no one says anything.

He drops the jacket in the Thames. It feels appropriate. He wonders idly if it will be used against him as evidence in the future but decides he just really, truly does not give a shit at the moment.

He will later remember the rest of the day in fractured spurts - getting home, giving himself some much-needed stitches, having a beer (terrible choice for someone with a concussion but whatever really), and trying to get some sleep without falling into a coma which is far more difficult than it should be. He also has vague memories of taking a piece of notebook paper and writing something down on it.

When he awakens the next morning, groggy but thankfully more lucid (and not in a coma) he finds the note stuck to his bathroom mirror.

It simply reads:

_FIND MORAN_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets some things off his chest when someone unwanted shows up again in his life.

____________________________________________

He’s taking a break, as it were.

Well, not actually a break. More like he’s regained some sense of sanity for a moment.

What is he thinking, really? What’s he going to do? All he’s got going are whispers and hints and none of it is helping in the least. Is he going to, what, expose and take down a criminal network, make a blog post about it, and expect Sherlock to be avenged?

He isn’t a fucking comic book character. Things aren’t solved by being a vigilante.

That’s what he tries to tell himself anyway.

So he’s taking a break. Trying to sort his head out. The stitches on his scalp heal quickly and everyone at the surgery is demurred by his answer of falling down on some pavement. Nothing too bad. Stitched himself up. They just nod and move away, though one intrepid nurse decides to check him for a concussion. He appreciates it, even though he also hates it. Hates how she peers into his eyes, touches his face, stands so close.

No one has touched him in a while.

But he stops visiting street corners late at night, stops asking hooded figures for information. Stops himself from staring when he sees the graffiti, the words _I BELIEVE_ making something catch in his throat. He thinks he sees _MORIARTY WAS REAL_ one day in Camden but he refuses to stop. To really look. He hurries by, head ducked down, ignoring.

Through it all, though, a note reading _FIND MORAN_ stays on his mirror. He doesn’t take it down though he barely looks at it when he brushes his teeth in the morning, combs his fingers through his hair.

He rarely looks at mirrors anymore.

It gets cooler out, and then cold. The rains slowly turn into snow showers and John's life starts to slide back to where it was. Where it should be. He puts a picture of Harry and his parents up on his wall. It looks silly sitting there, all alone in a sea of white, but he can't figure out what else should go beside it. His desk at work remains bare, his patients become increasingly afflicted with the flu now that allergy season is over.

It's horrible in all the ways that it isn't.

He's starting to get recognized less. It's a blessing, really. It's almost as if nothing ever happened.

And never would again.

 

But then he’s on his way home from the surgery one day, having stopped at Sainsbury’s for some shopping, when he feels something prickle on the back of his neck.

The feeling of being watched.

He glances to his right, not really turning around and sees a sleek black car with no plates pull up alongside him. He falters for a moment, pauses, and considers his options. It’s a crowded street and he could run but John’s been admirably less self-destructive as of late so he thinks, what the hell, why not taunt the vehicle. So he just keeps walking.

He makes his winding way down the street, taking his sweet time, pretending to window shop, but the car remains undeterred and continues its purring pursuit of him. It keeps about two feet behind until he reaches a street corner and has to stop for oncoming traffic.

“This really is rather childish,” a voice calls out behind him. John grips his shopping, his breath leaving him at the sound of the unwelcome voice. “I’ll just keep following, you know. It isn’t as if I have important work I should be doing instead of tailing you.”

John grits his teeth and looks over his shoulder. The mirrored and tinted window of the car is barely down even a crack but he can see _his_ face through it. He sighs, rolls his eyes and stalks over to the car.

“I have milk,” John states as he slides inside. “I’d rather this conversation be short enough that it doesn’t go bad.”

“Of course,” Mycroft responds. Something akin to his normal silky tone is there but no small amount of wariness is present as well. He looks like he’s lost weight.

The bastard.

Maybe John should ask about his diet.

“I trust you’ve been getting on?”

John doesn’t look at him, pretends to study the frankly decadent upholstery of the car. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighs, shifts, angrily clicks his jaw like he used to with Sherlock. John almost smiles except he’s not remotely amused.

“Can’t I call on my favorite former soldier?” Mycroft asks. His voice is saccharin to the point of a tooth ache and, were John anyone else, he’d take it for utmost politeness. However, John recognizes it for what it is: thinly-veiled frustration.

“What. Do. You. Want. Mycroft.” John stares straight ahead. The window partition between themselves and the driver is up, so they must be trusting John to not shoot Mycroft. 

That wasn’t exactly a good call.

He can feel Mycroft’s gaze on the side of his head, those calculating eyes evaluating. Scheming. It makes him feel ill but he keeps his jaw tight and his eyes stony. He used to look for similarities between the two brothers, trying to decipher how they were so alike and yet so different. Now all John can see is a shadow and it makes him more enraged than he could have imagined.

Instead of answering, Mycroft merely takes a suitcase at his feet, opens it, and tosses something into John’s lap. It takes him a moment to recognize it.

“I had it laundered,” Mycroft drawls as John shakes his jacket out, holding it up to see it free of blood. The jacket John had sent tumbling into the Thames.

His head clears of anger and a steady, dull pulse of adrenaline fills his system. It’s the most calm he’s felt in weeks.

It's the most _alive_ he's felt in weeks.

Clearly, there is something wrong with him.

He finally looks Mycroft’s way. “Thanks,” is all his says, refolding the jacket and tucking it under his arm.

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “That’s it?”

John meets his gaze, chin tilting up in challenge. “Well, I would have loved to see the attendant’s face at whatever dry-cleaners you took that to.”

“He was duly convinced that it was a matter of national security,” Mycroft sniffs. John stays silent, staring blithely at the partition that separates them from the driver. He wonders if perhaps he’s about to be arrested. He doesn’t think so… not that he especially cares.

Not for the first time, he muses on his apathy. On how little he cares. Is this how sociopaths feel? Is this how Sherlock always felt, not just about his own well-being, but the well-being of others? Not that he ever really bought that sociopathic bit.

John still believes that Sherlock cared about other people. Cared about Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade.

_John._

Again... clearly, there is something wrong with him.

“It was much easier to clean than the murder scene,” Mycroft states, a pointed lilt to his voice. John sighs.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to know that I’m not the one that killed him,” John says, dropping all pretenses. He sees Mycroft scowl out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I didn’t care?” Mycroft responds, one of those manicured brows rising. John raises an eyebrow right back because, well, two can play at that game. “However, John, I’d like you to know that this isn’t the way to go about this. This isn’t the way to…”

John lets out a harsh laugh and Mycroft falls silent. “To what?” he asks. “To make things right? To try and fix this? Last I checked, not much was being done in that department.”

“Just because my methods are less ostentatious than what you were used to with my brother-“

John silences him with an upheld hand. “No,” he says. “No, okay? _No._ You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to compare yourself to Sher - _him_.”

Mycroft doesn’t respond. He stares at the partition now, his back rigid, his lips pressed so firmly together that they are white. John wonders what’s processing in that big old head of his, if any of this really matters to him. If John actually matters. What does Mycroft care, anyway? Is it because he’s still connected to John in some twisted way? That John is the last vestige of a connection to his brother? Or is he the last vestige of a connection to a mistake? John doesn’t know. And he doesn’t really care. 

He can't care.

Mycroft lets out a puff of air, almost like a sigh only it’s too reserved to really be considered one.

“I am trying my best, John.” His voice is quiet, almost demur.

John might call it an apology if he didn’t know any better.

“Trying your best to, what, exactly?” he asks. “To rectify things? To grieve?" He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down, but no, you know what? He doesn't _need_ to calm down. "You didn’t even go to the _funeral_ , Mycroft. I know the Holmes brothers don’t deign to stoop to normal human emotions, but that just wasn’t on.”

“John, it’s more complicated than –"

“Than what, Mycroft? Is it because he was an embarrassment? Could you ‘political career’ not take it?” John demands. He holds up a hand before Mycroft can respond. “Yeah, sorry, never mind. I don’t actually care. You fed him to the wolves. You fed him to fucking _Moriarty_. You can’t ever take that back. Trying to 'help' me for whatever misguided reason you had today won't _ever_ fix that.”

They sit in silence for a moment, both breathing hard.

“I think I’d like to get out now,” John says, his voice calm.

The car slides to a stop without Mycroft even signaling to the driver. He looks out the window to find that they are right outside his new flat. Of course Mycroft knows his new address. Of course.

He has the door open when Mycroft clears his throat.

“I wasn’t trying to feed him to the wolves, you know,” he says philosophically.

“I believe you,” John answers. “I believe that you were doing exactly what felt to be the logical step in the right direction, your brother be damned.”

Mycroft, for all his subtleness of expression, looks as if he’s been slapped. “John –“

“ _Doctor Watson_ ,” John corrects through his teeth, stepping out of the vehicle, his shopping and jacket tucked under one arm. “I know you think I’m stupid, Mycroft. That I’m some sort of dullard. But it doesn’t take a genius to work out what motivates you.”

Mycroft looks like he’s about to say something else when John cuts him off once more.

“You know what the last thing I said to Sherlock’s face was?” he asks, leaning back into the door of the car and dropping his voice. “I called him a machine. He was going off to face Moriarity alone but wouldn’t tell me because he was a bloody idiot and I called him a _machine_.” He stands up straight and levels his gaze at Mycroft. “I can see now, though, that I had the wrong brother.”

He slams the door shut with little protest from the man inside and strides away. 

No one pursues him. No sirens wail, no hidden policemen come out to arrest him. He gets to his front door and goes up the stairs, pausing in frustration when he realizes he’s limping.

When he reaches his door, he pushes his way through and dumps his groceries in the kitchenette. 

The jacket, well, he tosses that in the waste bin.

He should feel better, right? He should _feel better._

Leagues better.

He'd finally told Mycroft off to his face.

So he should feel better.

He should _be_ better.

Instead, that night he stares at his white wall with his gun in his hands for the first time in a long while and wonders if he ever will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this story has really become Angst City, Population: John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You and I both know that Richard Brook story is a load of shit.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I'm too lazy to write actual summaries anymore, so here is me quoting my own thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna have this be two chapters but whatever, I do what I want! Also, I got inundated at work and with class so I felt bad for the delay.

__________________________________

It’s a week later when another unexpected visitor shows his face.

He’s heading off to meet Harry (not his favorite pastime but it’s been months and her tone has been getting sharper and more accusatory on his voicemail and he figures he can suffer an hour and be done with it) when he opens his door and finds Greg Lestrade standing on his doorstep.

The other man falters, his expression that of someone struggling to make a decision only to have the power to make that decision suddenly ripped clean away. He tries to smile at John, his sad eyes at war with the upturned corners of his mouth until he finally settles into an awkward frown.

“Um,” he says eloquently.

John just stares at him.

Greg looks at his feet, shuffles them, straightens his cuffs and opens his mouth again. 

“What’s happened?” John asks before he can speak, his stomach bottoming out. “Is someone hurt? Is it Mrs. Hudson?”

Greg’s face goes from confused and then guilty, looking to the heavens and seeming to silently berate himself. “No, God, _no_. Nothing’s wrong. I’m here in a completely unprofessional capacity.” His face settles more fully into his frown. “I’m here in my, um, own capacity.” His brow furrows and he gives a helpless shrug. “You know what I mean.”

They stare at each other for a moment more until Greg clears his throat and stares at his shoes. “I know you probably –"

“Do you fancy a pint?” John asks, cutting him off.

Greg’s look of surprise probably mirrors John’s own – he had intended to kindly tell him to essentially sod off but, well.

“Um,” Greg says again, his eyes falling back to his shoes before flicking up to give John a shy smile. “That sounds… yeah. Sure.”

As they make their silent journey to a local pub, John types a quick text to Harry asking for a rain check. She will no doubt take it personally.

John feels like a cad for not caring.

They go inside, get their drinks and sit in awkward silence for what feels like an eternity.

Greg is the first to break it.

“So how have… things been?”

John rolls his glass between his palms, something like a tension headache starting to creep up behind his eyes. “I, uh, got a new job. At a different surgery.”

“Do you like it?

“It’s fine. You know. It’s work. Loads of stuffy noses to sort out.”

“And Harry’s well?”

“Erm. Yes? I think.” He lets out a rush of breath. “I don’t know, to be honest.” He rubs his fingers over the spot in between his eyes that has started to ache. “Can we, just, can we not do this?”

Greg squints at him. “Do what?”

John gestures between them. “This. Pretending this is normal. It isn’t normal. Can we just stop?” He takes a long pull from his lager, feeling hysteria starting to bubble up inside of him. “I just cannot do it. I can’t. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said we should do this, I should have known that I couldn’t –“

Greg holds up a hand, silencing John. “It’s okay, John. To be honest, I don’t know why I tracked you down today. I just thought, well, you know. It was time.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been off licking my own wounds, and I haven’t been… I haven’t really tried to see you. Because. Well.”

John stares down at the table. He thinks, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. He gives Greg a measuring look, lets the hysteria bleed out of him in measures. 

“I don’t, uh, blame you. You know.” He’s so quiet that he’s almost afraid Greg hasn’t heard him but then the other man looks at him sharply, searching John’s face. John’s surprised to find it’s the truth. The actual bloody truth.

“It’s nice to know that one of us doesn’t,” Greg remarks and takes a long pull from his pint. His voice is low, ashamed, and John finally takes an actual look at him.

He looks tired. His clothes are more rumpled than usual and the bags under his eyes have a distinct purplish tint to them. His hair is a bit of a mess and could use a trim. If John’s not mistaken, there’s more grey there than the last time he’s seen Greg. He’s wearing a trench coat which is silly because, honestly, it’s much too cold out to wear such a thing. There’s stubble on his face and it’s more than just a 5 o’clock shadow.

He looks… rough. That’s really the only word for it.

John wonders, imagining what Greg’s been through since it happened. He probably had to undergo an investigation. He probably had his own media circus to wade through. He wonders if Greg is even working at the Yard anymore.

He feels a sudden surge of affection for this other man, this other broken human being, who he once considered his friend. Greg looks up then, must see the expression on his face, because he smiles and it’s small and brittle and vulnerable and John can’t help but smile back.

“I think,” John says, his head feeling clear for reasons that have nothing to do with danger for once, “that we should get pissed. Well and truly pissed.”

“I…” Greg gives him a look. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” John says with finality, draining his pint and raising his finger to the barkeep for another. “Seriously.”

Greg raises his brows but shrugs, lifting his glass to finish it in an impressive couple of gulps. He grimaces at John but just orders another, giving him a wry look.

“You’re on,” he says, a small smirk playing on his lips.

 

It’s nine pints later that finds them both lounging at a table in the corner, having abandoned the bar proper. John realizes this is the first time he’s been drunk in… well. A while. A good long while. Greg is telling him something, something inane, something about his first days of being a copper when John gives him a considering look.

“Are you… that is, are you still…?”

John falters and Greg offers him a rueful smile. “Still with the Yard?” John just nods. They’ve been studiously avoiding this exact topic of conversation, instead focusing on their lives before they ever met. But one of them had to breach the subject at some point. It was why they were there after all. Wasn’t it? John was decidedly fuzzy. “Yes. Well, I wasn’t, for a bit, they suspended me. Just started back. I’m on probation.”

“That’s rough,” John says honestly, taking another pull. It _is_ his ninth pint, right? 

Greg just sort of rolls his eyes, that rueful smile back in place. “Yeah, right, I’m the one in the tough spot. It’s nothing I didn’t deserve.”

John almost says something, almost tells him to stop saying such things. But he knows the words would be empty since he’s also someone having an awful lot of trouble with blaming himself for things.

“How’s Jeanine?” he asks instead.

Greg’s face darkens significantly. “I wouldn’t really know.” He grimaces. “She’s moved out.”

“Oh, Greg,” John says. “I’m so sorry.”

Greg waves a dismissing hand, that rueful smile back in place. “I think it’s been over for a while now. But you know how it is – you know they’re terrible for you, but you can’t help but always take them back. You can’t help but love them.”

There's a beat. The statement feels loaded, what with how Greg is staring at him over the rim of his glass. John wants to refute it, to say no to whatever Greg might or might not be insinuating. But John _has_ been playing the part of the mourning spouse, for all intents and purposes. It isn’t _exactly_ the same but Sherlock and he had never been exactly normal so he figures Greg’s assumptions might be closer to the truth than John has ever been able to accept before.

“Love is a bitch,” is all he says, draining his glass. “It can make anyone a bit mental. I’m sorry you couldn’t work it out though.”

Greg gives a half shrug, his face anything but blasé. “I tried. She tried too, I guess. But some people can’t change who they are.”

“Are you… you know, okay?” John waves at the bartended for another, trying to cover up his awkwardness and how he suddenly feels very off-kilter.

“I...” Greg stares off into the middle distance. “No? But honestly, I’m also sort of relieved. It’s nice not having to work at it constantly anymore. Which makes me feel guilty.” He takes another drink. “I also want to punch the bloody teeth in of that PE teacher. I don’t think he realizes the risk he’s taking, stealing a copper’s wife. For all he knows, I could be armed.”

John smirks. “Yeah, but you’re not.”

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to hide a firearm.” Greg takes another sip but gives John that same inscrutable look, one eyebrow raised. Challenging him.

Danger thrums around John as he takes another sip as well. He thinks he might be on his way to being well and truly drunk. It feels like recklessness.

“Some people need guns for reasons beyond blowing off their ex-wife’s new boyfriend’s head,” John offers carefully.

“What sort of reasons?” Greg asks, nonchalant, not looking John in the eye and toying with the coaster in front of him.

“Some people might be trying to find out things,” John says, trying to sound neutral. As if he’s not admitting something to a person he probably shouldn’t be admitting such things to. “Things like what exactly happened to Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg’s eyebrows draw together. “That’s dangerous, John.”

“I know,” John replies, dropping all pretense and leaning forward. “It’s mostly just been talking.” He swallows, guilt a low burn in his stomach. “Mostly.”

Greg purses his lips in thought. “Hm.”

But that’s all he says. He almost looks… approving.

“I was expecting you to tell me I’m mad,” John offers after a moment of silence.

“Well, I don’t think it’s mad.” John raises his eyebrows as Greg gives a half shrug. “Not especially mad, anyway. I just – well, John, I’ve… something _happened_ that day. Something that ended up with Sherlock being dead.” 

Greg huffs out a sigh and leans forward. “I’ve tried to… I’ve tried to look into it myself, mate.” This is news to John. His eyebrows go up even higher. “I’ve tried to open up any sort of investigation but I’m still under suspicion and I immediately get shut down. I can’t…” He runs a helpless hand over his face and John can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You and I both know that Richard Brook story is a load of shit.”

Relief floods John and he slumps down in his chair. It’s like being told you’re not the only one to see that the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes – someone else, someone besides the fucking street urchins, is on John’s side.

Greg seems unaware of the fact that this is a revelation to John and continues. “Sherlock was the real deal and no amount of posturing can convince me otherwise. I mean, we worked together for ages. I’ve known him – _knew_ him since he was still so hopped up every day that he was practically a vegetable nine times out of ten. I saw him get himself together – well, as together as he ever was – and become the man you knew. But then Moriarty entered the scene and something happened that allowed the actual responsible parties to get away. I…” He looks down at the table and rubs a hand over his eyes. They're red-rimmed. John pretends not to notice. “I dropped the ball and let myself get distracted and Sherlock paid the price. But I’m afraid it’s too late for me to be of any real use now. And if _I_ can’t investigate it, well.” He gives John a pointed look.

“I’m a civilian,” John responds weakly.

Greg sets his jaw and leans forward. “You’re a _soldier_ , John. If you were anything less, I wouldn’t encourage you like this. But you’ve… Sherlock can’t die in vain. He died for a reason, John. I’ve gotta believe that.” He drops his eyes and sits back. “I know you do too.”

“I told you this expecting you to try and talk me out of it,” John says, maybe a bit hysterically. This suddenly all seems almost hilarious. “You’re not talking me out of it, Greg. Why aren’t you talking me out of it?”

Greg just smiles, his eyes shining and his mouth looking wrong. “I dunno. Maybe I’ve gone a bit mad myself. Or I’m drunk.” He looks at his empty glass. “Probably drunk.”

“I haven’t really found out anything of use,” John admits in a rush. “I haven’t really gotten anywhere.”

“I’ve got faith in you, John.” Greg sort of laughs, rolling his glass between his hands. “You’re no Sherlock Holmes, but you’re a sharp man.” He frowns. “I’ve gotta say though, if anyone asks, I told you this was a fool’s mission and the police force is working its hardest to execute justice and you should go about your life and try to move on.”

“If anyone asks,” John repeats, smirking.

“Right,” Greg says. 

“And the gun?” John asks, stealing a look at Greg.

Greg’s face remains perfectly blank. “What gun?”

 

It’s some innumerable amount of drinks later that has John and Greg stumbling down the street, Greg guiding John to his house.

“He was a bastard, though,” John slurs. Who was he talking about?

“That he was,” Greg says. “But he was our bastard, you know?”

John nods and, oh right, they were talking about Sherlock. “You know… you know what I would do? If I ever saw him again?”

Greg gets quiet and John wonders why. “What, John?” he asks, somber.

“I would – I would punch him right in his stupid face.”

Greg lets out a surprised laugh.

“Now that is something I will hold you to.”

He somehow gets home (Thank you, Greg) and passes out on his bed over his sheets, his face smashed into his pillow and his shoes still on.

For once, he doesn't dream about anything.

__________________________________

The next morning opens with John’s mouth feeling like it’s full of lint and his heart full of renewed purpose.

He has Greg’s blessing.

Well. Approximate blessing.

He goes to work and does a good impression of a Responsible Adult for most of the day but when he’s told he’d probably be fine to go home early, he takes it. He’s halfway back to his flat when he turns and begins walking the opposite way.

To Bart’s.

He’s not even 100% on where he’s going until he’s standing there. He expects the sight of the building to be a slap to his face but it’s more just a slight dialing up of the nearly constant burn of grief that is ever-present in his gut. He swallows and studiously avoids going near _that_ side of the building and enters.

This was the last place they walked together. Talked together. Yelled at each other. Well, John supposes, he was really the only one yelling.

He’s not sure why he’s here. Is this part of the investigation? Part of the healing process? He’s been avoiding anywhere he’s ever been with Sherlock so he’s not sure why he’s chosen the lab first. John guesses that maybe it’s because it was always purely Sherlock’s domain. It wasn’t something they really shared. Will that make it hurt less? Or will it hurt more?

He walks with purpose and no one stops him. He sees a few familiar faces and maybe there’s recognition, but no one says anything. He just walks, doesn’t let himself falter, and pushes his way into the lab.

It looks the same, only cleaner. Unsurprising, really.

He runs his hands over the microscope, over the table. Looks at the slides that are clearly not Sherlock's, though it would be easy to pretend they are. Something sits in a tube on a counter. It's sterile.

He realizes with a start that they had their first conversation right in this room.

Their first and their last.

_Alone is what protects me..._

His ruminating is interrupted when someone enters and lets out a small surprised noise.

“Oh, you frightened me,” Molly says, hand over her heart. “Can I help…” She trails off as she realizes who she’s speaking to, her fingers going to her open lips. “ _John_?”

“Erm,” John says. He gives her a small wave. “Hi.”

They stare at each other for some amount of time that is clearly outside the realm of what is socially acceptable.

“Sorry, am I…?” John gestures to the lab.

“No!” Molly says, before checking herself for being so exuberant. “I mean, no. It’s fine. Uhm, what are you – I mean, it’s completely fine that you’re here – just what exactly…?”

“I just.” He looks around the lab. “I’m making an effort to, you know, work through some things. I thought coming here might help.”

Understanding and then sadness passes over Molly’s face. “Right, of course. That makes total sense.” She winces. “And here I come, wandering in, trampling all over the place, I’m so sorry.” She backs towards the door. “I’ll just, you know, leave you to it.”

“Thanks,” John says, the palpable awkwardness almost painful.

She ducks her head and shuffles out the door and John lets out a breath.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Molly was acting especially skittish. But why? Because of the awkwardness? Because she pities John?

He feels suspicion start to well up in him before he tries to clamp down on it. No. Molly Hooper is about as duplicitous as a baby deer.

But… she _did_ date Moriarty.

Was there something there?

Making a decision, John goes to the door, opens it and tries to follow wherever Molly went. He spots her go through another door into a corridor and he almost follows when he hears an odd sound. Not thinking, he drops to a squat and opens the door a crack, peering through.

Molly is walking but her steps falter as John hears the noise yet again. His forehead crinkles in understanding – it’s a _sob_. She sort of stumbles a bit before slumping against the wall, her shoulders hunching until she looks as small as a bird, her hands covering her face as she begins to cry in earnest.

John feels strange, an interloper on this personal moment, feeling all the more devious since he’s very obviously spying. It’s then that he hears her saying something and he has to strain to catch it.

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” she whispers brokenly. “ _I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry._ ”

What?

She's sorry?

Who is she apologizing to?

But then she’s taking deep gulps of air, looking at the ceiling as she wipes her shirtsleeves underneath her eyes. She tsks when she sees that her makeup has stained the cuffs with black spots and then shakes her head, seeming to gather herself. She takes another deep breath, letting it out slowly before pulling out her phone and tapping on it, going out the door on the other end of the corridor.

John sinks more fully to the ground, putting his head in hands.

He suspected Molly.

_Molly._

Molly who is obviously still so grief-stricken, John’s very presence prompted her to excuse herself and cry. She _was_ crying about Sherlock, right?

What else would she be crying about?

John picks himself up off the floor, dusts his trousers, and decides that he’s had enough healing for one day.

He goes home feeling more hollow than he has in ages.

__________________________________

  
_FROM: MOLLY HOOPER  
TO: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
john stopped by bart’s today_

_FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
TO: MOLLY HOOPER  
I said to only contact me if there was an emergency._

_FROM: MOLLY HOOPER  
TO: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
he was poking around the lab and i was worried he was going to find something_

_FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
TO: MOLLY HOOPER  
There’s nothing to find._

_FROM: MOLLY HOOPER  
TO: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
also… i’m worried about john_

_FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
TO: MOLLY HOOPER  
Why? What’s wrong? Is he not well?_

_FROM: MOLLY HOOPER  
TO: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
i don’t think he’s sick, he just looked… terrible_

_FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
TO: MOLLY HOOPER  
It won’t be much longer now._

_FROM: MOLLY HOOPER  
TO: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
i know but he looks like he’s lost weight and like maybe he’s not sleeping and i’m really worried now_

_FROM: MOLLY HOOPER  
TO: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
he needs you to come home_

_FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER  
TO: MOLLY HOOPER  
It won’t be much longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any weirdness/typos. I started to try and post this after taking my sleepy-time medication and it has started to make me loopy.


End file.
